Hollow
by Maiden of Mercy
Summary: James Sunderland is tormented. Whilst Mary is sick, his sexual needs are ignored- until after an argument with his beloved he finally snaps and visits a beautiful prostitute. Guilt begins to eat him alive...
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: I do not own Silent Hill, James, Mary or Heaven's Night. I do, however, own Genie and the Barman. Not that I'm very proud of that. This story sprouted from things I'd heard other Silent Hill fans say about James's shallowness and how they thought he probably visited strip clubs and prostitutes while Mary was sick. I wanted to expand on that whilst also showing the torment he suffered because of his own weakness. Please Read and Review, anonymous or not xxx**

**NOTE: I posted this story a while ago, then deleted it. Now I'm reposting. If you favourited it last time, as I know a few of you lovely people did, would you please do it again? Thanks.  
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**You're a coward, James...**

**- Kate Bush, James and the Cold Gun**

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_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 17th August 1991-_

I have never felt so guilty in all my life.

My beloved wife, Mary, is sick. She has a terrible disease that eats away at her, little by little, day by day, making her little more than a living skeleton. She hasn't the strength to move around without my help, so she stays in bed at all times. Unseen but heard. Lying there helplessly, coughing and coughing until I swear I'll go insane. It isn't her fault. Not really. I know that I should devote more time to caring for her, making her feel comfortable. Mary would probably like that. Despite her unpredictable tantrums I think she enjoys there beside her. I used to like it too. We'd spend hours chatting and joking together.

But not any more. Every time I look at her now I see the ghost of the beautiful woman she used to be. I can't stand it. I _know_ she's ill. I _know_ it hurts her as much as it hurts me. I know I should be faithful and patient, waiting like a saint for her to get better.

Deep down, however, I'm certain that she isn't going to recover. But meanwhile what am I supposed to do with myself? I'm a _man_, a human being with needs and bodily desires like everybody else. Though it's not like I haven't attempted to resist to them. I've tried _so_ hard to abstain myself the sensual world. It isn't fair to Mary for me to look at other women when _she_ is my wife. But then it'd also be cruel to expect _her_ to engage in anything sexual. She's too fragile. She must understand that. Yet whenever I mention one of my women colleagues from work, Mary becomes wildly jealous. She even accuses me of cheating on her, although I know that she doesn't really believe I'd do something like that.

She's wrong, though. I wish now that she wasn't, but there's no way to go back on what I did. Not now. You see, last night as I was watching some seedy old movie on the downstairs TV, I began to realise quite how _much_ I needed a release. Every time a woman appeared on screen I longed to touch her. After an hour or so of torturous yearning I shifted. My hand reached down towards the zipper of my pants. Then it fell back limply onto the arm of the chair. I felt dirty. What was I doing, fantasising over these pixelated 2-D women? I had a wife: a loyal, loving wife. She must be feeling the strain as much as me.

I went upstairs and entered Mary's room. It smelled of vomit, sickly flowers, dank sweat. But I didn't care. I strolled across to the bed and knelt beside it. Mary's glanced up listlessly. She didn't seem particularly pleased to see me.

"Hello, Mary," I said softly, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She turned away from me. "How're you doing? Do you need anything?"

"No," she muttered. Her eyes flickered suspiciously. "I'm _fine_. Rotting up here, alone, without any company… You don't care about me anymore, do you? You'd prefer to stay downstairs with those filthy magazines than come and talk to me for a little while. You probably wish I was _dead_."

The words hurt, but as usual I pretended she hadn't said them. Rather than reacting, I simply moved on with the conversation.

"Actually, honey, I was wondering if you'd, uh, like to, um…"

I stumbled over the sentence. Before her illness, I'd barely need to say a thing before Mary pulled me down onto the bed with her. Now she glared with those lifeless brown eyes and curled her lip, as if the very thought turned her stomach. She was red with rage.

"Oh, that's very considerate, James," said Mary sarcastically. Her body jerked out of reach. "I'm sick and hurting and you ask me to lower myself to something like _that_ for your own pleasure? What the hell do you think I am? A doll? I am a person, James, although right now I probably don't look like one."

Her voice quivered, as if she was about to cry. I felt like a complete jerk.

"Mary, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought that since it's been so long you might… want to. I was thinking of you, honey. That's all."

I outstretched a hand to comfort her. Mary let out an enraged growl and slapped it away. One of her long nails tore a deep scratch into the flesh. I cried out, tugging my arm out of the way. Blood was welling up in the wound. Some of it spilled onto the white bedclothes. Scarlet upon snow.

"Go away! Get out of here! I don't want your filthy hands anywhere near my body!" screamed Mary. Her cheeks were puce. "Why can't you go find somebody else to… to _abuse_, huh?"

"Alright!" I found myself yelling back. "If that's what you want, I !"

And in a wild temper I stormed out of the room and slammed the door hard behind me. I marched downstairs, whisking my jacket from the coat hook as I passed it. Then, without another thought, I stalked straight out of the house and got into the car. My head was buzzing with frustration. I couldn't understand why Mary was being so prickly- so _selfish_- about the idea of the pair of us making love. For all she knew, it might help ease the pain. But no. She had to be stupid and stubborn as usual. I missed the old, gentle Mary who would never have dreamed of lashing out. Whilst thinking this, I rubbed the bleeding line on my palm. It stung like hell. Just like Mary's bitter accusations.

But now I decided her cruelty didn't matter. I was going to do as she advised and find somebody else to screw. I knew exactly where to go. In all of the magazines in my secret stash there were adverts for numerous strip clubs where loose women spent their nights. They listed places far away- like Heaven's Night- to places close by, such as Behind Bars. I decided to drive past the sleazy area of South Ashfield to see which place looked classiest. I didn't want to pick something up, after all. When I finally arrived, I realised quite how many places there were for a desperate man to go. There was a very long line of dives outside of which stood several hookers, smoking and talking casually. My eyes scanned over short skirts and low-cut tops, allowing me to feel a dirty thrill. This was wrong, a terrible betrayal. But I was so mad at Mary and starved of feminine contact that I drove right up to the fifth strip club along and parked outside.

It looked like the safest of all of the seedy joints nearby. Not only was it less crowded than the others, it also looked a hell of a lot cleaner. The standards of women were likely to be a lot better than those I'd seen milling in the streets. I sat down a little nervously on a lonely bar stool and ordered myself a drink. While I waited, I took a look around. There were plenty of pretty girls around to choose from. None of them quite caught my fancy. Interest piqued, I glanced around at the other end of the club. I was decidedly nervous. But after a moment or so, this was replaced with a flush of unexpected arousal. Not far away was a dimly lit stage on which was a long, silver pole. As music played in the background, a highly attractive blonde slid down it provocatively. Her sinuous shape twisted about it, gorgeous and beguiling, capturing my heart in moments. I gulped dryly. I could feel myself growing hard. I had no eyes from the other whores in the joint- only her.

And no wonder. She was a spectacular beauty.

The dancer was much younger than Mary- curvier, too. Her hips were wider, softer. Her tight top showed an impressive cleavage, which Mary's own couldn't possibly hope to match. Her eyes were stunning too- sparkling sea green. But most striking of all was the dancer's mouth. She had plump, crimson lips that glistened in the low light of the strip club. They were wide, inviting, _perfect_. My gaze became riveted on them. I couldn't help imagining how it would feel on me, sucking, licking, pursing, tasting… I mopped my brow rapidly on my sleeve. It was amazing how quickly the thought reduced me to a shivering, sweating mass.

"You ain't had a woman in a while, pal?" the Barman asked abruptly. I shrugged a little, trying to leave it ambiguous. He seemed to know the truth anyway and winked coarsely. I guessed that he was a regular fixer, used to setting people up with men or women just for the fun of it. I knew what he was going to say before the words left his tongue. "Y'know, I can see you have your eye on Genie. I could get her down here for ya, no problem. She ain't got anybody else lined up for tonight. She'd love a little company."

"But…" I waved a hand at the other men watching the blonde girl dance. I'd been going to protest that there were plenty of other guys for her to attend to when I noticed a few whores slipping subtly between them. The Barman had spoken the truth; nobody wanted Genie but me. Even so, I searched for an excuse not to meet with her. Although I wanted her badly, my mind was still fixed on Mary. Maybe it was wrong to come out after all, I thought glumly. She hadn't been able to help what she'd said. She was sick, delirious…

But even so, she couldn't satisfy me. Genie could. Nevertheless, it was immoral to allow her to.

My thoughts were in turmoil. I didn't know which way to turn.

"I'm married," I blurted desperately. The Barman grasped the situation in moments and leaned forward to grasp my shoulder.

"Look, you're gonna spend just one hour with Genie. Confidential, discreet, whatever. You can forget it ever happened. Pretend it was a wet dream or something. But now I'll get her here and you can have the time of your life, no worries. That do ya, pal?"

I didn't have a chance to say another word, for the man had already called Genie over. The woman heard him and smiled curiously. She blew sumptuous kisses to her audience before stepping down from the stage, one hand fluffing her hair confidently. I could see that she was utterly at ease with who she was, and I found that strangely attractive. Mary had always been badly worried about her appearance. There wasn't a day that went by without her frowning deeply into the mirror. This lady, however, was a different matter. She sailed towards me with her head held high, beaming like an angel. She _knew_ she was beautiful. So did I. And to be honest, that both excited and intimidated me simultaneously.

"Hey, handsome," purred Genie, gliding a slender hand up the inside of my thigh. "What's a guy of your type doing in a dive like this, huh? You could do so much better. And trust me, honey, I _know_."

I couldn't bring myself to answer her. A lump had filled my throat, preventing any words from escaping. I merely watched powerlessly as Genie's fingers eased across my hardened crotch and slipped inside my pants. A low grunt escaped my lips. I heard her soft laughter in my ear, felt her warm breath on the nape of my neck. I was already so close to ecstasy and she'd barely even begun.

"Now," Genie continued, lips brushing the rim of my ear. "You're real tense. You need to relax, loosen up. You're in luck, baby. I know exactly how to ease all those little worries. You'd like them to go away, wouldn't you? I can tell. You're so _stiff_. Aren't you?"

With every word, Genie tenderly stroked my aching flesh. I gasped and grabbed her wrist, insides churning with humiliation and desire. I could feel the several pairs of jealous eyes trained on me. Genie was obviously a prized catch- and no wonder. Even her slightest touch sent my head reeling with pleasure. I knew now that there was no going back, that I was going to sleep with her. But I knew that I couldn't do it here. Not in front of everybody.

I clenched my teeth and leaned forward so that I didn't have to raise my voice over the music.

"Is there anywhere less… crowded we can go?" I asked tightly. Genie tilted her head to one side and considered me with those heart-breaking eyes. The corner of her mouth quirked endearingly. I wanted to kiss her _so_ badly- yet I didn't quite dare to. In a way I felt that this wasn't real, that this was a wonderful dream that would break if I touched her. I knew it wasn't ofcourse… but I kept my distance, just in case.

"There's a little place upstairs if you wanna check it out," said Genie. She removed her hand from my person and wandered towards an unnoticed doorway. She glanced back at me over her shoulder. "Just follow me and I'll take you there. No extra charge."

She gave me a coy wink and disappeared within. I got to my feet with a clatter. With a devilish grin, the Barman pushed the final dregs of my drink towards me.

"Come back anytime," he said cheerily. I nodded, downed the last of the alcohol and tossed him a few notes. I figured he deserved them for what he'd done.

It didn't take long for me to reach Genie's room. After ascending a grubby staircase and turning a couple of times, I came across a door that was hanging slightly ajar on its hinges. When I went inside I caught sight of her reclining, half-naked, on a large bed. The room around her was dark, lit only by a few clichéd candles on the windowsill. The tackiness of this gesture didn't perturb me as it might have once done. I was far too preoccupied with Genie to care anymore. I stared at her, overwhelmed by the raw sensuality of her being. I found her almost intoxicating. It was unbearable being so close, yet still unable to touch her. But I remained stood in the doorway, gawking like a perverted child. Genie arched an elegant eyebrow at me. One of her slims legs crossed over the other invitingly.

"Genie, I…" My words jumbled in my mouth. "You're just…"

Within the space of ten seconds, I had slammed the door behind me and was entwined with the woman on the bed. I showered her face and breasts in wild, hungry kisses, caressing every inch of her with my wanting lips. Whilst doing so I stripped away the last of her clothing and tossed it away. I saw Genie smile in sly satisfaction. She rapidly responded to my eagerness. Her skilled tongue and fingers teased my flesh, rubbing, licking, stroking where needed. The coyness in her approach was very familiar. Too familiar. But, all the same, it drove me wild.

After she placed a love bite on my throat, things became an indistinct blur of sexual desire. Kisses, thousands of vehement kisses, passed with violent passion between us from chest to thigh. Tentative touches of matched with sadistic scratches and bites. Flesh, breath, hair, _more_. Harsh pants, soft grunts, high moans like a vixens cries. I gripped her waist, head thrown back in ecstasy, thrusting into the tight, wet warmth within. Her face pink with pleasure, eyes rolled back in her head as she reached her peak. Rocking, bucking, chafing, screaming. Sweat and semen and tears. Resting, minds awhirl with bliss, starting again. She mounted me, grinning like a seductress. She drew a nail like a talon saucily across my chest. Spilling blood. It dripped onto the sheets, staining them.

_Scarlet on snow. _

In the end, as I collapsed against the bed in exhaustion, I asked in a hoarse voice how much payment she required. I have plenty of cash in my wallet, and I was willing to give it all for what I had just experienced. But Genie shook her head and sashayed, stark naked, over to the window where the candles were still burning. Her shadow leapt across the wall like a sexual demon.

"No charge this time, honey," she murmured softly. "That was a special favour. I could tell you needed it. But you've gotta promise me one thing, mister."

I blinked at her groggily.

"Come back the same time next week. I'll be waiting."

Too tired to argue, I nodded in agreement. To be honest, I was so high with the sheer joy of our sex that I would've done anything for her at that moment. Even whilst driving home an hour later I was still charged with it. The woman, I thought to myself, was some kind of goddess in stripper-form. Either that or some lustful angel.

Now, however, as I sit up in bed writing this journal entry, I wonder if perhaps she's a demon instead. The symbol of sin and temptation. Well, so far I've succumbed to at least one sin.

_Lust_.

I'm so sorry, Mary.

But what's done is done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Finally, the second part of the story! There will be three parts, and we all know how it will end. In this part, James decends into a slow depression and succumbs, yet again, to humanity...**

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_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 18__th__ August 1991_

What have I _done_?

I woke up this morning with a burning sense of shame. At first I couldn't understand why. I lay there, head fuzzy with sleep, and tried to think back to the day before. For a while I was very confused. But then my treachery to Mary came flooding back and I groaned aloud. How could I have been so _thoughtless?_ So _stupid_? I'd thrown away years of a wonderful marriage for the sake of mere sensuality. I love Mary more than anything else. She cared for me too, fiercely so.

I tried not to dwell the pleasure Genie had given me. It only created a larger sense of betrayal than before.

Guiltily, I checked myself over for remnants of the previous night. I found that my clothes (which I'd slept in) still smelled strongly of alcohol and perfume. I dragged a hand tiredly across my face. Something smeared onto my hand- shining scarlet lipstick. My heart plummeted. I went straight to the bathroom and filled the sink. With uncharacteristic violence I scrubbed myself until my skin was raw red.

Upon glancing in the mirror, I caught sight of bruising bites and scratches all over me. Genie had been a rough lover. She certainly knew how to leave her mark on a man.

I could hardly pretend she'd been a dream now.

Still, I cleaned myself up as best I could and put on fresh clothes. It was something of a relief to do so. It made me feel more real, more awake. Unfortunately, the gnawing guilt remained. I couldn't shrug it off no matter how hard I tried. Images of Genie danced inside my head. They filled my brain, tainting every thought with their perversion. I couldn't bear it. I rushed down to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, drowning out the memories with the familiar growl of boiling water. My headache slowly developed into a migraine. It was as if I was being punished for what I had done.

Moaning weakly, I laid my forehead against the cool marble of the kitchen sideboard. I was consumed with self-hatred. It hadn't been Genie's fault, not really. After all, she was only doing her job. In the end it all came down to me and my shallow needs.

A sudden voice jerked me from my misery.

"_James?_"

I leapt up with shock, knocking the kettle onto its side. By the time I realised that it was Mary it was far too late. She tottered into the kitchen like a human puppet, body limp and faltering. She looked terrible. Her face was drawn, corpse-like, and there was vomit all down her front. One slipper was hanging askew from her heel, causing her to trip and stumble every now and then. She looked pathetic, weak and sad. I rushed forward to help her, pushing my guilt firmly aside. For once Mary did not shy away. She clung to me, cold and clammy-fleshed. I tried not to mind. Mary was sobbing so wretchedly into my shoulder that her condition hardly mattered.

"Honey, what's wrong? What happened?" I asked, feeling genuinely worry well up inside me. _I love her so much_, I realised in surprise. _How could I ever have treated her so badly?_ "Did you have a nightmare?"

At first Mary didn't answer. She simply shuddered glumly, filling my nostrils with the fug of stale urine. It hit me how much I'd been neglecting her lately. When she first became ill, I cleaned her up at least once an hour. Nowadays I did so roughly twice a week. What kind of husband was I to treat her this way? She was my wife, not some unwanted toy. But it seemed she'd become one, replaced by dreams and a seedy, back street whore.

"Oh, James," sobbed Mary. Her frail hands clutched at me feebly. "I've been so cruel. You didn't deserve those things I said to you last night. You're always so good to me. I couldn't expect more from you. Yet I tore you down and treated you like crap. I'm worthless. I know that now. You'd be better off if I was gone. I was right about that, at least. I'm doing nothing more than tying you down when you could be out having fun. I'm a nothing but a burden to you, aren't I?"

I felt my heart squeeze painfully. Swallowing my revulsion, I swept Mary up into my arms and carried her into the living room. I brushed a few porn magazines off the sofa before collapsing into it, Mary's weightless body in my lap. Her words had hit me like a physical blow. She really _hadn't_ meant what she'd said, yet I'd taken her words literally. I'd found somebody else when she still wanted me.

Now she was crying over me and I wasn't worth even a single one of her bitter tears. Head hanging, I kissed her stale cheeks and whispered into her ear.

"I love you," I told her.

At least that was the truth. I could have slept with every woman in South Ashfield and still adored her. Mary was the only person who ever made me smile. I hated to see like this. It made me feel even worse than before.

"Oh, James, I love you too," she whispered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I love you _so much_. I hate to make you unhappy. But I have some bad news."

"What is it, honey?"

"I think my illness is getting worse," she replied, and buried herself into my chest. I frowned. Mary was right. When I stopped to listen, I could hear her breathing rasp gutturally in her chest like a death rattle. I took her thin hands in mine, and felt that they were icy cold. Quickly, I touched the gentle dome of her forehead. Beads of cool sweat beaded her brow.

Her condition was plummeting.

Fear gripped my insides and refused to let go. I began to panic quietly. It seemed that my doubts about her lifespan may possibly be true.

I held Mary tight in my arms and rocked her like a child. I did so to comfort myself as much as her.

"Mary, I… I don't know what to say."

Her lifeless brown eyes blinked up at me, bland and empty of hope.

"Take me to hospital. Please. They can help me, give me medication. They can take care of me. You won't have to put up with me anymore. They can take me out of your hands."

"That's not what I want," I said fiercely. My eyes were prickling. I rubbed them impatiently with my knuckles; they came away wet. Tears. "You're my wife, for God's sake. I'm gonna make sure you're well if that's the last thing I do. I'll take you to hospital tomorrow- but only so that they can make you well. I _can't _lose you."

I was speaking the truth. The moment the threat of Mary's death cropped up, all my other concerns died away. Deep down, she meant everything. Why else would I marry her? Apart from the fact she is- _was_- so beautiful, she was sweet, gentle and kind. A woman in a million. How could I ever have forsaken her in the way I did?

I sat there with Mary for at least two hours, despite the fact I was running late for work, and talked with her. Eventually I had to call in and request the day off, and luckily the Boss understood. I think he heard the premature grief in my voice and pitied me. I should have been grateful, but I wasn't. I just felt hollow. Like something had taken away from me.

I still don't know what that is.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 29__th __August 1991,_

I took Mary to hospital today.

In a way I wish I hadn't. We could have pretended everything was going to be fine, that soon she'd be healthy again and that we could start a family. After all, I'd decided to postpone going to the hospital and take Mary for a vacation in Silent Hill. She'd enjoyed it. But her disease got steadily worse, and so this morning I did as Mary asked and drove her up to St Jerome's. It's a good hospital. We've been there several times before since it's close to my Dad's place. We like the staff, trust the drugs and generally find it quite an appealing place. And so neither of us was particularly nervous when we first went in. I'd expected the doctor to prescribe some new medication for Mary, something that worked. They'd done it plenty of times before.

However, it turned out I'd been far too optimistic. As soon as the doctor set eyes on Mary I could sense things weren't good. He shook his head and looked clinically apologetic. Then he ran a few tests on her. Mary fidgeted constantly, fussing at the collar of her starched shirt. She wasn't used to being out of her comfortable pyjamas. Ofcourse, we both knew she couldn't wear them in public, so she'd allowed me to dress her. Now, though, her anxiety was making her restless. I put my hand on her arm in an effort to calm her. To my surprise, she shrugged me off with a curt word. She had forgotten how readily she'd once clung to me.

Eventually the doctor looked up and began to give his diagnosis, sounding both regretful and business-like. Mary and I listened in shocked silence. I felt acutely nauseous. I hadn't really _believed_ things had gotten this bad. I'd only suspected, and hoped I was wrong. Yet they had, and I hadn't even realised. I wondered despondently if her decline in health was my fault. Lately I'd been more interested in sex and drink than Mary's welfare. She had been _rotting_ up in her room without company for weeks now. Maybe if I'd attended her more often she'd have lasted longer. I'll never know. Because as the doctor talked, it became clear to me that Mary was going to die. My body sagged in my seat. I felt oddly blank and lifeless, all traces of emotion gone. My voice was dull as I asked that terrible question.

"How long does she have?"

"Three years at most," the doctor replied. "Perhaps six months. It's impossible to say with certainty. But if she stays here, we can give her medication to ease the pain and keep her condition stable. Who knows? We may be able to prolong her life more than we expected."

He paused awkwardly.

"I apologise for bringing you both such terrible news. I'm afraid that there is very little we can do. Today's technology hasn't progressed enough to find a cure for this particular disease."

"I understand," I said bleakly. I tried to summon a smile for Mary's sake, or some warmth to my tone, but it all fell flat as crushed cardboard. I could see Mary beginning to disintegrate before my eyes. Her eyes, darkened with misery, were glittering with tears. "I guess I'll go home and get some clothes and stuff for her."

The doctor placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to console me.

"That would be a good idea, Mr. Sunderland. Meanwhile we'll get your wife settled in. I promise we'll try to make her as comfortable as we can."

"Thank you, doctor."

I went to Mary and attempted to put my arms around her. Somehow, I just couldn't do it. I ended up simply touching the skinny just of her spine and gazing at her, lost for words. I wanted to tell her I loved her, like I had when she'd first started to go downhill, but those three words jammed in my throat. I ended up apologising instead and leaving her alone. The last thing I saw was her grey, desolate face staring after me. Silent. Motionless. Empty.

When I finally arrived home, I was in pieces. I didn't know what do with myself. Without the constant presence of Mary upstairs the house felt somehow _wrong_. As if it was haunted. I couldn't sit down to anything, not even to eat. I had to abandon the pizza I'd ordered for myself after the first few bites. It was going cold anyway and besides, the mixture of bloody tomato and sickly yellow cheese turned my stomach. However, I still had a hollow feeling inside me I needed to fill. It didn't take long to realise what would do the job. Alcohol. I sat in the armchair with bottles lined up around me, slowly making my way through every drop of drink in the house. My head pounded as it so often did. But for once I welcomed the pain. It made me feel something, whereas before I had been numb and cold.

Some hours later the last bottle slipped through my fingers and smashed on the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet. I didn't bother to retrieve it. I just sat there, staring across the room at the TV. There a steady buzz of static on screen, constant, ceaseless, crackling to fill the silence of the room. I could see my own face reflected in it. I looked tired and strained. My eyes were shadowed and blood shot. It was obvious that I needed sleep, but I couldn't. I was afraid of the dreams I might have if I did. Anyway, the emptiness inside me was still there.

I clambered abruptly to my feet, kicking the drained alcohol away from me. Swaying unsteadily, I crossed to the phonebook and flicked through the listings. My eye fell upon two words under the J section. Jasmine's Joint. The club I had visited two weeks ago. My lips tightened. My fingers bumped clumsily against the letters on the page, tracing them over and over. There were numbers there too. I could call them. It was late, yes, but by now the place would be in full swing. It would be easy to ask them to send someone round to my house. It would take mere minutes…

_Mary_, I thought miserably. I'd betrayed her once before. How could I do it again?

I thought back to out last trip to Silent Hill. We'd made love there- but I hadn't enjoyed it. With every thrust I could feel her bones jabbing against me, and I was afraid that if I pushed her too hard she'd break. She was too fragile for me. Afterwards, she'd curled up into a ball and sobbed muffled apologies repeatedly into the pillow. Then she'd coughed, coughed till blood flecked her lips…

The phone slammed against my ear.

_I'm sorry Mary._

"Hi, my name is James Sunderland. I was wondering if you could send somebody to see me at my place. Yes, I understand. Ofcourse not. Alright."

_I can't live without this._

"Well, there is one girl. I saw her last time. Her name was Genie."

_Don't hate me._

"I'll be waiting."

_Please…_

Forgive me.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. Here is the final chapter of Hollow. If you have any story requests, please send me a PM. Read and Review, and most of all enjoy x**

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_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 30__th __August 1991,_

I betrayed Mary again last night, but I have drunk so much since then I haven't fully begun to regret it yet. My head is swimming with alcohol. I've spent all morning crouched over the toilet bowl, beads of sweat rolling down my face. It's not the hangover that makes me feel so sick. It's the bad taste in my mouth- sweet, yet sickening- because it reminds me so much of Genie. She shouldn't be important to me; she's just a whore, after all. But I can't stop thinking about her, hating her… hating _myself. _I'm such a coward.

Oh Mary. I resented you for making me feel so unhappy, but I understand now. You're innocent. You have no idea what I've done to you. If you did, you wouldn't want me anymore. And I wouldn't blame you for that, Mary. I wouldn't blame you at all. In a way, I wish you'd stop loving me so I wouldn't have to carry this guilt around with me any more. But you do, don't you?

Yes. And I love you too. I promise.

Genie arrived at the house roughly half an hour after I called Jasmine's Joint. She stood on the doorstep, shivering in her skimpy dress. I invited her in at once, slurring my words so much I had to repeat myself twice. My drunken state didn't seem to bother her. She laid one hand on my shoulder and gently guided me into the living room, shutting the front door behind her with a soft click. I stumbled against the couch, tripping over a pile of empty bottles left in disarray on the carpet. Genie wrinkled her nose. The room was dark, dirty, littered with wrappers and crushed cans I no longer had the heart to clean up anymore. There were a few obscene magazines lying on the table. Ashamed, I turned them onto their faces and mumbled a word of apology.

"Oh, don't worry about it, honey," said Genie. "I see this kind of thing all the time."

"You do?" I asked, and groaned as the familiar throb of migraine started up at my temples. Genie leaned forward, dropping a kiss on my pounding forehead. Her lips were cool, soothing, and slightly sticky with gloss. I dimly recalled how hungrily I had let them slide over my body the last time we met. I felt myself grow hard.

"Yes, James," said Genie. "I do. Now, how come it's been so long since we saw each other? You promised you'd visit me, but you never did. That's not what I call repaying a lady for a good turn."

"I…I'm sorry," I said. My arousal began to die down again. "My wi… I couldn't… I just felt…"

I collapsed on the sofa, nursing my head in my hands. Genie sat down beside me. Her naked leg brushed mine, smooth and subtly sexual. The trim of her lace underwear showed just above the top of her thigh. Genie took my face in her hands and kissed me again. It was so… gentle. I turned and looked at her, vision blurring with drink.

"Whatever happened, don't blame yourself," said Genie. "Too many men do that, honey. They tell me their worries, their bad feelings, and I make them all go away. You'd like that, wouldn't you James?"

I nodded silently. Genie pushed me down onto the sofa, straddling my hips in a single lithe move. I didn't move, didn't respond to her, but I didn't have to. She guided my hand to her breast. It was soft and warm beneath my fingers.

She made love to me then, ignoring my drunken misery, and made brought me to a strange and almost dreamlike ecstasy. I passed out with her still in my arms, strands of her silky hair brushing my cheek. In my dreams, she was Mary, but with a butterfly tattoo on her hip that seemed almost to flutter in the light.

When I woke up this morning she had gone, taking her payment for the night with her. I sat up, dizzy and confused, neck inexplicably sore. There was a message on the answer phone for the first time in months. It was from a nurse St Jerome's, asking when I was next going to visit Mary.

"She's very anxious to see you, Mr. Sunderland."

I think I cried then. Things are so blurry in my mind now I'm not sure what's real and what isn't.

I need another drink.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 31__st __August 1991,_

I feel a little better today. I've eaten part of a takeaway meal I ordered late last night. It was pizza, cold and congealed in the box, so I heated it up in the microwave first. The sickly looking mix of bloody tomato and melted cheese made me feel queasy, but I forced myself to eat it anyway. It didn't taste too bad. I managed to get a quarter of the way through before I remember I had work today, and rushed out in the only clean suit I have left feeling very disorganised. Nobody seemed to notice I was late. It was like I was a ghost, floating around my job from one place to another. I've started to look like one too. There are dark rings under my eyes, and I'm very pale.

But I don't feel ill, just tired. I've spent most of the afternoon on the sofa, staring at a picture I have of Mary and I on the opposite wall. We took it at our wedding. She looked so pretty. Everyone said so. I remember her turning to me during the reception, her eyes shiny with happiness, and saying, "James, I love you so much. This really is the best day of my life." She meant it, too. I don't smile much, I know, but I smiled for her.

I wonder if Mary misses me as much as the nurse said she did. Maybe I should go and visit her. I could take her flowers, or maybe a teddy bear. She'd like that.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, 3rd__ June 1991,_

I didn't go to see Mary. I've spent the last few days drinking constantly. My father called earlier today. He's worried about me. He says I need to get help if I don't fix things soon, or else I'll get sick. Will I? Maybe. Not like Mary, though. That damned disease isn't contagious, or else I would have caught it a long time ago. Sometimes I wish I had caught it instead of her. Then she'd know how much it hurts to see the person you look wasting away before your eyes.

That's why I don't want to visit her. I don't want to think of her as some sick woman, so different to how she used to be. It scares me so much to think that one day there won't even _be_ a Mary anymore. Just a shell. A dead thing.

Oh God. Don't let that happen. Please.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

I feel sick. I don't know what day it is, or month, or even how long I've been lying here for. I stink of vomit, and every time I fall asleep I have nightmares about some caged thing filling my mouth with moths and whispering my name as I die. It had Mary's face, rotted and grey like a fish's underbelly. I woke up screaming. One of the neighbours was banging on the wall. It reminded me of her, angrily thumping in the night for attention or food or out of sheer rage. I tried to scream again, but it was like my mouth was filled with cotton wool. My head hurts. I'm afraid.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

This morning I made myself stand up and go to my room to get dressed. Like a robot I washed and shaved, making myself look halfway human again. Then I got the car and drove out to the hospital, picking up a bunch of flowers along the way.

I walked into Mary's ward like a stranger. People stared at me as went by, almost as if I had no right to be there. I felt that way too. I didn't even know Mary properly anymore. Maybe she wouldn't remember me. The drugs might have made her sleepy and forgetful. I thought I could deal with that. I could sit there beside her bed, stroking her hand, talking to her about stupid trivial things until she dozed off. But Mary wasn't like that at all. When I arrived, she was sat up in bed with her hands folded neatly on top of the sheet. It was obvious she'd been waiting for me for a long time. She had her head turned away from me, facing the window. I cleared my throat.

"Mary?"

She turned to look at me, and I almost cried out in shock. The disease had progressed, disfiguring her face into something scabbed and disgusting. I tried so hard to hide my horror, but it must have been obvious in my expression for Mary's eyes instantly clouded with furious tears. I realised with a painful jolt how horrible it must have been for her, alone day after day knowing how hideous she was becoming. I wanted so badly to comfort her and apologise for not visiting sooner, but the words wouldn't come.

"What do _you_ want, James?" snapped Mary.

The old bitter viciousness was present in her voice. She looked at me as if I was a worm she'd scraped from her shoe, her upper lip curling into a snarl. The little confidence I'd worked up on the way to the hospital dwindled away.

"I, uh, I brought you some flowers," I stammered, holding them out to her.

They were limp now from lack of water, but I still believed Mary would like them. I was badly mistaken. She regarded them with nothing but loathing.

"Flowers?" she repeated. "I don't _want _any damn flowers. Just go home already."

"Mary, what are you saying?" I said in dismay.

Mary put her hands to her face, digging her fingernails into her cheeks.

"Look! I'm disgusting. I don't deserve flowers. Between the disease and the drugs I look like a monster. Well, what are you _looking_ at?"

I jumped violently. Her last sentence had been screamed in a sudden fit of rage.

"Get the hell outta here! Leave me alone already! I'm no used to anyone. I'll be dead soon anyway. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow…"

She began to mutter half to herself.

"Maybe it would be better if they just killed me. But I guess the hospital is making a nice profit off me, they wanna keep me alive."

She blinked, then glared at me with anger anew.

"Are you still here? I told you to go! Are you deaf? Don't come back!"

This was just too much for me to handle. I threw down the flowers beside her and hurried away from her bedside, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Mary called pitifully after me. I think she felt guilty for saying such things, but mostly I knew she was thinking about herself. I could understand why, ofcourse I could. But she didn't seem to care about me any more or give a damn about how I felt. The second I got home I went into Mary's room and buried my face in her pillow. It smelled sweet, so horribly sweet, that I broke down and cried all over again.

I don't think Mary loves me anymore.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

Mary's been in hospital two months now. I'm getting by, but I'm becoming more and more unhappy as the days go on. Genie has been to my house so often now that she knows the layout of all the rooms by heart, but she doesn't satisfy me any more. It's getting harder and harder to forget Mary and lose myself to pleasure. My father visits me regularly, making sure I'm still alive like a good Dad should. He jokes around a lot, but I can tell he's going crazy with anxiety. He offered even to put me up at his place for a while. I didn't understand why until I started finding help-lines hidden all round the house. He's terrified of leaving me alone. I appreciate his concern- damn, _ofcourse_ I do –but all the same I feel like he's wasting his time. There's nothing wrong with me, apart from a small alcohol problem.

It's Mary he should be worrying about. Mary, Mary, Mary.

I can't stand thinking about how sick she's becoming.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

Genie came to see me today. I didn't call her; she just turned up of her own accord. Her make-up was smeared all over, streaks of mascara and lipstick running like paint over her face. She was wearing a tiny negligee and thigh high boots, even though it was raining heavily outside. Her hair was plastered flat against her skull but somehow she was still lovely. I stared at her in shocked silence.

"Well, aren't you gonna invite me in? I'm freezing out here," said Genie, shivering heavily.

Nonplussed, I ushered her inside. She instantly began tugging off her wet shoes, throwing them into one corner, and then without a hint of shame she started tugging the negligee up over her head.

"What are you doing?" I said.

Genie stood there in the middle of the floor, stark naked and beaded with rain, and did not answer me. Drops of water rolled down between her breasts and belly. She stepped forward, lovingly caressing my cheek. Her hand was icy cold. I jerked away, but Genie kept walking towards me until my back hit the wall. She pressed up against my body, eyes very shiny in her pale, grubby face.

"Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she asked me, tracing my lips with her forefinger. "I know you do. You want me in your life forever, sleeping with you, making things better. You're so tired, James. You need me. You love me, don't you?"

She cupped my crotch, kneading it roughly. I gasped, but not with pleasure. I felt oddly repulsed by this woman and her obvious sexuality.

"I… don't know."

"Come on, James. We could be together. I could leave Jasmine's Joint, be yours for free. I think that's what we both want, isn't it?"

"No," I said. Over her shoulder, Mary peered at me from our wedding photograph. "It's not. I'm married, Genie. I love my wife. I could never leave her, even for you."

Genie sneered.

"You clearly don't love that much, James, or else you'd never have slept with me."

The words stung badly. Unable to stop myself, I struck out at her and slapped her across the face. She stared at me, wide eyed in disbelief.

"Go," I told her. "Take your clothes. I don't wanna see you anymore. This isn't right. I need Mary, not you. Just leave. Please."

And so she did. I feel strangely relieved, but also empty, because I know that I'll never have it in me to go out and find someone like her again. I don't think I want to. Genie was exciting and gorgeous, but all that kinda intimidates me. I've never been the kind of man to thrill-seek or get bored of everyday life. Normality soothes me. Something me and Mary have in common is our love of simplicity. All I want is to have her home with me, healthy like she was before. But that's never going to happen. She's just going to get weaker and weaker, mutating into some kind of living cancer along the way.

I can't stand it. I just can't.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

I looked through all my old photographs of Mary today. Seeing her as she used to be made me feel even lonelier than ever before. It feels like there's a hole inside me, and that every time I think about Mary it just gets wider and wider. I try to fill it with drink but that's stopped working too. Nothing works anymore.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

Mary came home today. She's lying in bed upstairs, unable to move, unable to breathe without agony. The doctor said it probably felt like she had shards of glass in her lungs and throat, and that she can't be fed solids in case she chokes on her food. Her coughing is worse than it ever was before, and now her skin discolouring is so bad that I can hardly recognise her any more. Her hair has started falling out too. It hurts me to look at her, so weak and fragile under her quilt. I hate watching her suffer.

She's dying now, slowly but surely, and there's nothing I can do but sit here and wait for it to happen. Oh God. I can't… I can't stand it.

I love her too much.

_From the Journal of James Sunderland, date unknown,_

Mary's gone. So is the hole.

But today, I got a letter…


End file.
